


Under Gray Skies

by Vaeru



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Cuddles, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Temporary Amnesia, because I said so, d'Artagnan has a bad day, d'Artagnan's horse is named Chanceux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaeru/pseuds/Vaeru
Summary: He wakes to the feel of a horse’s muzzle against his cheek and blinks up at a sky painted gray.The rain had quit. It had been storming earlier, or at least he thinks it had. He remembers a road awash in mud and his cloak dragging at his shoulders, soaked through. They had been traveling...The horse nudges at him again, snorting hot breath into his ear, and he raises one hand to push it away, but that simple movement sets his nerves afire and the world goes dim and distant. The next thing he’s aware of is the burning of his chest and the rasp of his breath in the back of his throat, a feeling like fire trailing back from one temple, and a bone-deep agony in his leg that throbs in time with his heart. The horse is still there, though, looming over him, silhouetted against the sky and breathing out great swirling gusts of steam.———Summary:d'Artagnan has a terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad day. Gratuitous hurt/comfort with a dash of amnesia for flavor.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> A plotbunny ate my brain. I regret nothing.
> 
> One more chapter after this one — possibly two.

He wakes to the feel of a horse’s muzzle against his cheek and blinks up at a sky painted gray.

The rain had quit. It had been storming earlier, or at least he thinks it had. He remembers a road awash in mud and his cloak dragging at his shoulders, soaked through. They had been traveling...

The horse nudges at him again, snorting hot breath into his ear, and he raises one hand to push it away, but that simple movement sets his nerves afire and the world goes dim and distant. The next thing he’s aware of is the burning of his chest and the rasp of his breath in the back of his throat, a feeling like fire trailing back from one temple, and a bone-deep agony in his leg that throbs in time with his heart. The horse is still there, though, looming over him, silhouetted against the sky and breathing out great swirling gusts of steam.

The horse reminds him, brings back the memory of riding, of a purpose, of something urgent, and it’s that urgency that pushes him to move, rolling over and then pressing his face to the frozen ground, panting against the pain.

_... Paris,_ he thinks, the memory rising from somewhere deep in the fog-shrouded depths of his mind. They had been traveling to Paris.

He manages to raise himself up with his arms, and he blinks the haze from his eyes to find himself looking into the eyes of a dead man, wide and glazed and reflecting the snow-gray sky.

The sight should be terrifying, but even the discovery of a second body, and then a third and a fourth lying further away, does little more than confuse him further and worsen the pounding in his skull. He can smell copper in the air, the distinctive scent of fresh blood—this was recent, but he cannot remember who or how or when.

_Paris._ It drums inside him like a second heartbeat.

Cold rain and then a dim stable. Tending to the horses.

Strangers. The dim glitter of light upon swordblades.

He remembers fighting, but it doesn’t make sense—the hard ground of the stable floor flickers and changes to frost-slick road, the chill damp of rain becoming the biting cold of winter—and the harder he tries to remember, the more the memories drift and dissipate like vapor. The effort leaves him dizzy, and he wants nothing more than to sink back to the ground and let the cold soothe the fire in his head.

_“Ah, my friend, you have to be more careful now. Paris is far different than Gascony—her winters are not nearly so forgiving.”_

He remembers the flash of a teasing smile, a voice warm with affection. The memory is tinged with the scent of a campfire and healing herbs and a feeling of camaraderie that makes his throat ache with longing.

_"You must keep moving. It's sleep that's most dangerous of all. If you remember nothing else, remember this—in winter, sleep kills."_

He dares not attempt to stand unaided—the fire in his leg has grown only worse, and the mere thought of walking upon it is enough to make him feel ill—but the horse is still there, patient and seemingly weary, and it is the work of a moment to catch the trailing reins and coax it to stand alongside him.

He catches the stirrup and uses it to pull himself further upright, working to get his good leg beneath him. He had thought to work his way slowly to a standing position, but even this slight progress has left him sweating and trembling like a man with the ague. Gritting his teeth, he reaches as high as he is able, braces himself, and—

In one desperate lunge, he forces himself to his feet.

The fire that surges down his leg leaves him breathless and blind, yet it is eclipsed utterly by the lightning that shatters his skull and blots out thought itself. It is by God's grace alone that he maintains his grip upon the saddle and that the horse remains still while the world slowly reforms around him.

His face is damp, sweat and tears already chilling upon his skin, and he swallows against the taste of bile.

He can now see the road—long and lonely and empty save for himself, the horse, and the bodies sprawled at his feet.

There had been an inn. He remembered gray stone walls and the anticipation of warm food and a dry bed. He feels well and truly lost, for he knows not how he came to be here, only that he has somewhere else he needs to be, someone to find, if only he could remember...

_"One thing at a time, pup. Gotta keep your head straight. Think it through."_

_"Are you teaching the boy to cheat?"_

_"Cheatin's such an ugly word. I'm teachin' him vital life skills."_

_"With cards?"_

_"With cards."_

He breathes deep, clenching his eyes closed for a moment.

He has to get to Paris.

The stirrup might as well be twenty feet above his head. The ground is flat, nothing to act as a mounting block, and the mere idea of trying to climb into the saddle is enough to turn his stomach.

He tangles half-numb fingers in the base of the horses mane, gripping tight, and he reaches across with his free arm, still holding the reins, and tucks his fingers beneath the edge of the saddle.  
He can't ride. He doesn't know which direction he should be traveling—

_Paris._

—but he can't remain.

He takes a step, leaning his weight against the solid bulk of the horse as he shuffles his injured leg forward.

"Come on," he breathes. He manages to click his tongue and limps forward another step, half-praying that this will work.

The horse is a patient creature, though, and willing, and when he steps forward again, it does as well, bearing his weight.

In this way they continue down the road as his vision slowly tunnels inward.

* * *

 He hears the other horses before he sees them, but his eyes have slid closed at some point, his entire world narrowed to the throbbing in his head and leg. Even the winter chill has become a distant sensation, somehow unimportant.

But the sound of hooves rouses him, and he raises his head to see dark shapes on the road ahead—he is still on the road, somewhat to his surprise. Three riders... or two... or four... The image wavers like heat shimmers in summertime.

The riders hesitate, and then as one they kick their horses into a gallop toward him.

He thinks he hears voices, but his horse chooses that moment to toss its head, shying and crab-stepping sideways. His full weight falls on his injured leg, and he hears himself cry out as the world goes white.

The next thing he knows, there's an arm around his waist, holding him up, and there are hands wrapped around his, tugging at his grip upon the horse's mane, and there are voices blending and tripping over one another, garbled and nonsensical.

His hand comes free with a jerk, and it's only the grip around his waist that keeps him upright. The world tilts again, and then he's on the ground, braced upright by the man behind him, arms still around his waist and chest. He blinks down at his hand and finds it bone-pale, clenched around a tangle of black hairs.

"Needs must, I’m afraid. Not to worry, it will grow back. Chanceux will forgive you." Warm hands press against his cheeks, almost burning hot against his skin, and raise his face until he's looking into a pair of worried brown eyes. "Hello there. What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

The hands move to the side of his head, and he flinches away.

"You’ve taken quite a knock, my friend. Forgive me, I’ll be quick." The voice continues, soft and soothing, as does the examination: fingers pulling at his eyelids, pressing against the side of his neck, down his sides, seeming to seek out every ache and bruise until he is breathless.

"What th' hell happened?" demands a deeper voice from further away.

"Attacked," he whispers.

"So we deduced," says the man behind him, words precise and clipped. Something about the tone makes him uneasy.

A touch upon his leg provokes a choked groan. The hand at his waist moves, rises to touch his forehead, the uninjured side, brushing through his hair. He hears the brown-eyed man say something about ‘splint’, but the blood is rushing in his ears and it’s hard to hear.

"Paris," he says, the word thick on his tongue. It’s important, somehow, to tell them. "Get to Paris."

The deep voice speaks again, “Yeah, whelp, we'll get you to Paris. Just let Aramis finish lookin' you over."

"We w-were... going to Paris."

"'We'?" asks the brown-eyed man, sounding confused. Then, "Here, Porthos, tether the horses and come hold him."

"We were attacked. My f-father—" There's a lull in the activity around him. Inexplicably, it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath. All he can think is that he needs help, and he knows, without knowing _how_ he knows, that these men can provide it. "Please, help. Have to... f-find my father."

The hand upon his forehead has gone still. Above him, a tense voice growls, _"Aramis."_

"He's concussed—confused. That’s not our greatest concern right now. Porthos?"

"Ready.”

More hands upon him, gentle but firm, and he thinks he hears someone apologize, but then someone grips his lower leg and something _moves_ , bone grinding upon bone—he hears himself give a choked off cry, and the nausea that he has battled since first waking overcomes him.

The last thing he remembers is being turned upon his side, someone holding his head as he retches miserably upon the road. Then everything goes quiet and still.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he wakes, he’s warm, which is surprising, and he is resting against something that moves, which is considerably more so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, looks like three chapters instead of two.

Awareness comes in flashes, half-remembered.

Someone carries him, strong arms behind his shoulders and knees, his face pressed against cool leather. Whoever it is, they’re talking, constant and low, and he can feel the vibration of the words through the broad chest more than he can hear them. He catches the word 'pup'.

Hands tug at his clothes. Cold air on bare skin, quickly replaced by something warm and soft that smells of sweat and horse.

He is turned and touched and shifted and moved about more than he can keep track of, but throughout it are the voices, low and calming.

He rouses enough to drink something warm that tastes gritty and foul yet familiar. It’s followed by water, but they take it away before he can have his fill.

Everything goes soft and faded around the edges after that, until someone prods at the side of his head, and something is poured over it that feels like liquid fire and brings tears to his eyes. This time there are blue eyes above him, one hand grasping his, the other upon his head. He can hear them talking, him and the brown-eyed man.

"—stitches, I’m sorry—looks like—musket—"

"—saying— _shot_ —?"

"—hold him—"

There’s more pressure-pain along the side of his head. He tries to pull away, but he’s pinned down. He’s too tired to fight for long, if one could even call it fighting. He falls limp, panting through clenched teeth as _something_ pricks and pulls at the skin along his temple in a way that he does not want to think about.

"Stubborn boy. _Breathe_."

He tries to obey. When the world fades this time, he welcomes the relief.

* * *

When he wakes, he’s warm, which is surprising, and he is resting against something that moves, which is considerably more so.

He shifts slightly, and realizes that he is cocooned, neck to toe, in what must be an entire inn’s worth of blankets and a few cloaks for good measure. Though his outside feels warm, it is as though his insides are still chilled, for shivers continue to creep up and down his frame. The motion reawakens abused nerve endings, and he cannot help a slight hitch in his breathing.

He’s leaning against someone’s chest. There are arms around him, and beneath his head he both feels and hears a voice softly rumble, "'Mis."

He hears the crunch of boots over dead leaves and blinks open his eyes in time to see the man from before, brown-eyed and smiling kindly, crouch beside him.

"Good evening. How are you feeling?"

Everything is painted in shades of black and gold, the light of a campfire flickering somewhere past the man who is now leaning forward, reaching out to touch his forehead.

He tries to turn to see who is behind him, but the brown-eyed man is having none of it, holding his face toward the campfire’s light and peering into his eyes.

He gives up trying to pull away, instead managing a raspy, "Who...?"

The man's smile gains an amused tilt. "Porthos is our _de facto_ heat source when there’s little else to be had. Not to worry—he’s used to it."

Behind him he hears a low chortle and, "Relax, pup. You’re chilled through. 'Spect you’ll be right toasty soon enough though."

The brown-eyed man finishes his examination and sits back on his heels.

"You’ve taken quite a knock to the head, so you may be somewhat... confused. Do you know your name?"

That’s easy enough to answer. "Charles. Charles d'Artagnan."

"That's good. Charles, then. And do you remember us?"

There’s a weight to the question that he doesn’t understand. His eyes roam.

They’re in the forest, and the sky overhead is velvet black. He can see the campfire clearly now—a sizeable blaze, with plenty of wood piled nearby—and there are horses (including his own, he is relieved to see) tethered at the edge of the circle of light.

Seated across the fire, the blue-eyed man watches intently but remains silent. Being the object of that focus is like being a mouse looking into the eyes of a hawk. Pulling his gaze away is difficult and yet a relief.  
Beside him, the brown-eyed man is still waiting for an answer. There's a leather pauldron on his shoulder, and the sight niggles at something in Charles' memory.

"Musketeers." It is neither statement nor question, falling somewhere in between.

"Yes, we are." The man nods, but he still seems to be waiting for more.

"You found me," he manages at last. "On the road."

The man smiles kindly, though it somehow doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"That we did. You were somewhat the worse for wear. Can you tell us what happened?"

The images flicker through his mind once more—the dimly lit stable, the abandoned road; pouring rain, brief flurries of barely-there snowflakes. He remembers the pain far more vividly than anything that came before.

"Attacked," he tries. Then less sure, he adds, "We were separated. We were going to Paris."

"Yes, you told us that much. We’ll get you to Paris. Don’t worry. Just rest for now."

"I have to find my father." Anxiety bubbles back to the surface, a sort of nameless, creeping horror that has him trying to push himself upright, ignoring the pain that flares in his head and his leg leaves him gasping. "I have to—"

"Whoa, pup." The man behind him pulls him back down, and the brown-eyed man presses his hands on his shoulders.

"You’re in no shape to go anywhere at the moment. Calm down."

"But my father—"

"Will not be found tonight. I’m sorry."

His tone settles Charles and yet makes him more uneasy, for while his voice is calming, he also sounds truly sorrowful. While he contemplates how that could be, the man moves toward the fire and retrieves a a cup set near the flames.

"Now, there’s some broth if you’re hungry..."

Charles shakes his head without thought, and the resulting flare of pain reminds him to not try that again, ever.

"I see." The man replaces one cup and picks up another. "Well, at the very least, this will help with the pain. I can’t vouch for the taste—"

"I can," mutters the man behind Charles. Across the fire, the blue-eyed man snorts softly.

"—thank you. Charles, you have a concussion, so we’ll be waking you throughout the night to be safe. I apologize in advance. But this will help you rest while you can."

The brown-eyed man kneels in front of him again and holds the battered metal cup toward his lips. He can smell medicinal herbs in the steam. It takes only a moment for Charles to realize that his arms are effectively pinned by the layers wrapped around him like spidersilk around a fly. He wants to protest and half-turns his head away from the cup, looking around the camp again, trying to think past the pounding in his skull.

He’s caught between emotions that he can’t reconcile. He feels safe, yet exposed. The men are strangers, yet...

"But who _are_ you?" His uncertainty is laid bare in his voice, and he wants to grab the words and swallow them back down again.

The man smiles again, easy and bright and yet  _wrong_ , and says, "Of course. How rude of us. Well, you’ve met Porthos."

"'Lo." One large hand pats Charles gently on the chest.

"I’m Aramis. And the grim looking fellow sitting over there is—"

"Olivier."

The brown-eyed man, Aramis, makes a noise like he's swallowed a bee and twists to look at the other man across the fire. Olivier looks somehow uncomfortable and defiant at the same time, locking eyes with Aramis. There’s an entire conversation that happens in silence. Aramis looks away first, frowning.

"Of course. Porthos, Aramis, and... _Olivier_... at your service."

Aramis raises the cup again. Charles considers asking to free his arms, or arguing against the need for any sort of medicine, but there’s something about the set of Aramis’ jaw that makes him think that this is not a fight he wants to attempt. And his head and leg truly are hurting, the pain growing in waves like a rising tide.

When Aramis presses the cup to his lips, he drinks it to the dregs, and Aramis helps him with a drink of water to wash away the bitter aftertaste. His stomach gurgles unhappily for a long moment but settles. He wants to ask more questions, to understand what's going on, but he is warm, and the light of the fire is soothing, and he can feel the heartbeat and breath of the man behind him.

Aramis. Porthos. Olivier.

He does not sleep, not at first. He closes his eyes and drifts, half-aware of soft voices.

_"... Olivier?"_

"I trust you remember how he first found us."

"Well, yes."

"Heh. Unforgettable, that."

"Apparently not." The voice is colored with a mix of emotion that is hard to name—disappointment, or worry, or frustration, or anger, or...

Whatever it is, it feels _wrong_ , and he shifts, half-rousing, before the arms around him tighten, and a deep voice murmurs in his ear.

"Go to sleep, pup. We’ve got you."

He trusts that voice, and he obeys.

Then the dreams begin.


End file.
